


It's easy to forget

by LupaDracolis



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:11:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LupaDracolis/pseuds/LupaDracolis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France is in love, and each time he notices Canada, it’s like he realises his love for him, all over again. A pity Canada himself doesn't get a fresh start each time...</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's easy to forget

**Author's Note:**

> So, this isn't so much a fic as a rambling talk about something that's been playing around in my head for ages... I started to write it as a fic, but it wasn't really working in that style, and I've always wanted to try writing like this. It's actually of a pretty decent length, too, for me - around three and a half pages on a word document. Anyway, I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it, too.

It’s easy to forget about Canada, right?

It’s so easy, in fact, that it’s easy to forget you forgot about him.

Still, people _do_ notice him, every so often… and when they do (and they don’t confuse him for America) they have to admit that he’s not bad looking. Even that he’s rather good looking, in a cute sort of way.

France, especially, notices this, when he notices Canada. And now we come back to how it’s easy to forget you forgot him, because France actually has feelings for the North American nation. Quite strong feelings. Feelings that begin with the letter ‘L’.

France is in love with Canada.

And each time he notices Canada, it’s like he realises his love for him, all over again.

 

The first time, France corners Canada after the first day of a two-day meeting, and they have dinner. One thing leads to another, and they end up, together, in France’s hotel room. After several rounds of fun in bed, they fall asleep.

In the morning, Canada wakes up to find himself alone in the bed, but it’s alright, because France is just around the corner in the bathroom, isn’t he? But he isn’t, not even when Canada goes back to fetch his glasses, to make doubly sure. Because you see, France forgot about Canada, didn’t even see him in the bed beside him when he awoke and dressed quickly, leaving, wondering why on _earth_ he slept through his alarm, although of course it’s because he didn’t set it the night before, being far too busy with Canada to think of such things.

When he’s sure France has completely left the room, Canada goes back to the bed and curls up on it, sobbing miserably into the pillow that smells of France. He stays there for the rest of the day, until France returns, tired from the meeting… and no matter how upset with him you may be, if France finds you lying naked on his bed, you’re in for a rather enjoyable time.

 _This_ morning, Canada awakes to find himself still held tightly in France’s arms. He looks up at the blond man’s face, and seeing he’s still asleep, drifts off again himself. He’s woken later when France sits up, disentangling them. Apparently deaf to Canada’s voice, he moves around the room, packing up his things to leave. He’s forgotten Canada again. So, that’s the end of the second time.

On the third time France falls in love with Canada, they’re at America’s Christmas party. Canada is sitting in the windowsill, staring out at his polar bear playing in America’s garden. A tap on his shoulder makes him look up, to see a hand holding mistletoe above his head. And then the Frenchman’s lips are claiming his, and it’s wonderful. Canada forces him away, because he’s _hurt_ , but France looks so upset, and he kisses so wonderfully, that Canada finds himself allowing another kiss… and then allowing France to carry him upstairs, in his arms, to a guest bedroom that they thoroughly soil.

When France starts to fall asleep, after, Canada latches onto his arm, shaking him vigorously; he will _not_ allow France to forget about him again, and tells him so. France laughs at this, confident he would do no such thing (because, as before, he’s forgotten that he forgot), and pulls Canada close for another round. Sleepy anyway from the long flight down from his home to his brother’s, and also emotionally drained, Canada falls asleep first, after this. He awakes the next morning to find a warm quilt pulled over him, and a little bear curled up in the space between his arms, where France had been previously.

The fourth time is at another meeting and Canada, recognising the look in France’s eyes, now, flees. He abandons the meeting, quickly going back to his hotel room, and locking himself in it. France, concerned for his wellbeing, calls off the meeting, and follows him with America, who he forcibly reminded of Canada’s existence. Canada refuses to let either of them in, so America convinces a maid at the hotel to get him a spare keycard to his brother’s room. He then realises he’s left England alone with a whole load of cheap alcohol available, and presses the keycard into France’s hand, running off.

When France is able to lock himself with you in a room with a bed, a similar thing happens to when he finds you naked on his bed.

He wakes up unsure as to why he’s in someone else’s empty hotel room, and leaves before they can find him in there; having a vague memory association of England, America, and alcohol, he assumes this combination of things is to blame, in which case his lack of a hangover is remarkable.

The fifth time France tells Canada he loves him, Canada bursts into tears. Not yet, though. Right now they’re on either side of Canada’s front door; him on the inside, France on the outside. France’s teeth are starting to chatter, as he pleads with Canada to open the door. He’s wearing the thickest coat he could buy, in his own country, but he might just as well be wearing a cotton t-shirt, for all the protection it gives him from the Canadian February. Very, very reluctantly, Canada opens the door for France. The older nation shuffles inside, and attempts to cling to him, “for warmth”. He struggles, at first, but eventually gives in, shutting the door, and making France pull his shoes off, before heading for the living room and its gently glowing fireplace, France still hanging onto him, shivering.

When they’re comfortable in the living room, France lounging on the hearth before the fire, and Canada curled up in the chair beside it, Canada waits for the inevitable. His hands are starting to tremble, because he knows, he _knows_ what’s going to happen, so he hides them in his lap, because he’s not going to show that weakness to France.

Sure enough, France lifts his head, and looks at Canada through the strands of hair that normally stay by the side of his head, but right now have somehow migrated to his face and Canada can’t help but think how adorable France looks like that, and France is calling him his “dear Canada” and suddenly it’s all far too much, and Canada bursts into tears, as I said before. And these aren’t delicate little-girl sniffles, but big, gasping sobs, all loud and snotty and steaming up his glasses. France is frozen in shock, on the hearthrug, watching as large tears roll down Canada’s cheeks, before he snaps to, moving quickly over and attempting to soothe Canada, but Canada has had _enough_ , _dammit_ , and he hits out at France, who falls back in astonishment because this is _Canada_ , and then Canada is shouting at him. Shouting angry, hurt-filled words and all France can do is lay there, staring up at him, and he’s stood up from his chair, and France is thinking how sexy this would be if it weren’t for the snot and tears on Canada’s face, and he’s not really listening because he doesn’t, as a rule, and Canada is _still_ shouting at him, and it’s getting louder and louder until the phone rings.

When the sound registers, Canada gives this little shiver, and glances over at it. Wordlessly, France offers up his handkerchief, although of course he’ll have to throw it away afterwards because ew, snot. Canada takes the handkerchief and blows his nose into it loudly, before hurrying over and grabbing up the phone just before it goes to voicemail. It’s America, who heard the shouting from his house and wanted to know who it was Canada was yelling at, doing the whole concerned-big-brother act until Canada puts the phone down, cutting him off mid-sentence. He wipes his eyes on the back of his hand, before turning to look at France and telling him, quite calmly, but still with an edge to his voice, that people who are in love do not forget about the person they’re in love with, and that France will be sleeping in the spare room tonight, and leaving in the morning. And then he walks out of the room.

France, finally, realises he’s done something wrong, and he goes after Canada to apologise, but Canada’s already locked himself and Kumajiro in his own bedroom, and apparently cannot hear France’s calls to open the door. So France goes through to the guest room, because it’s getting late, and he lies down on the bed, trying to work out what he’s done wrong. But he can’t think of anything, and he’s been lying there for a while when the little polar bear comes in, because Kumajiro’s become bored in Canada’s room, and he unlocked the door and snuck out to visit France. As he always does, he asks “Who?” to which France responds, bemused, with his name. Kumajiro sighs a little, and shakes his head. “Canada.” He says, before leaving.

For some reason, but with no idea why, this seems to strike a chord with him, and he lies back again, because he’d sat up when Kumajiro came in. Suddenly, he gets a flash of memory, of an event that he’s certain he’s never seen before, because it’s of a glance around a hotel room, with Canada sleeping peacefully on the bed. He frowns, about to dismiss it, when the memory of Canada, again sleeping but this time in his arms, comes to him. He remembers getting up, Canada rolling onto his back as he does, and leaving the room, emerging in a corridor at America’s house. He’s getting slightly frightened, now, because he’s pretty certain these memories don’t belong to him, and he’s not sure how to stop them. The next memory is another of himself holding Canada in bed, but this time they’re in a hotel room, and then France is getting up, and he’s packing away his things, ignoring the confused and sleepy; and increasingly more hurt and upset; questions from Canada, who’s sitting there on the bed, still, as he leaves, carrying his suitcase. The final memory comes almost immediately after, and in it, he’s telling Canada he loves him. They’re standing in the hallway, Canada with his back against the wall, and France with his hands planted firmly on it, either side of him. It is only now, at last, that he remembers, remembers the other four times he’s told Canada he loves him, and realises how truly terrible that must have been for him. Troubled by these new memories, and what they mean, he settles down to sleep.

In the morning he goes downstairs, finding breakfast laid out for him. Thinking this was awfully nice of whoever’s house it was, he eats, before leaving for home, and Canada waves goodbye silently from the doorway.

The sixth time, Canada slaps him.

He doesn’t say it again.


End file.
